


like a bird in my hand (it will all go as planned)

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Character Study, Child Abuse, Dangan Ronpa Spoilers, Depression, Drv3 destroyed me, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Let's play how many times can I say lies or liar in a single story, M/M, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt, ouma centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-22 00:03:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12468980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: I still don't know how I feel;the words I use are words I steal.





	like a bird in my hand (it will all go as planned)

i.  
Ouma always wanted to play the hero.

Heros; they covered themselves in lies, kept everything hidden, protecting everyone, keep their identity and friends safe, no matter the cost.

And yet everyone still loved them. That was something he never understood, how heros could face odds against odds, and always be on top. No matter how many lies spilt from their mouths, they were always in the right, it seemed. Lying was needed, he concluded, to keep people save. (to keep them at an arms distance-)

Heros saved everyone. Heros were loved by everyone.

When he is trapped, classmates quivering as they are forced to kill, he learns that villains lie too.

(He can almost recall and echo of a memory–)

Ouma was never a hero.

  
ii.  
His favorite color was purple.

Purple was the bubbles in his soda, grapes fit for a king, hand fed. It was the bruises littering his pale white skin, the ones he would cover with concealer, a smile on his face. It was his eyes, eyes that never sparkled quite right.

Purple was the truth, when all he was were lies.

  
iii.  
Ouma plays it all off as a joke—a lie. He's not sure how much of him is genuine anymore. He's not sure if any things genuine.

He's surprised it's her who stoped him, her lithe hands shaking around the gun. He remembers those hands around his own neck, resolute, not a tremor in sight. He would have thought she'd leave him, leave him to rot, like she keeps saying he deserves, but she doesn't. Ouma thinks that maybe, he isn't the only liar here.

"If this is a joke," she says, red eyes cold, "then why are there bullets in the chamber?"

"Of course it's a joke, maki-chan. You don't think I'm really the time of person to do this, do you?" She sneers, "Nishishishishi! I'm not as pathetic as that, maki! I'm wounded you think so little of me!"

She stomps out of the room, his gun still in her hand from when she ripped in from under his chin, finger on the trigger. He sighs, debating if going after it again is worth it.

He breathes for another night, but that doesn't mean he lives.

  
iv.  
People fall to his feet like dominos.

Except, that's a lie, because everything he says is a fucking lie, the sickening, sweet, sweet syrup making him gurgle, as gravity takes its toll.

He's the only one who's even fallen.

In saihara's eyes is the image of a dead girl, who stole his heart and crushed it, just like the cracking skull of someone who might have been a friend. His bones burn with something akin to resignation.

v.  
Ouma plays chess with no one, the illusion of knowing when he moves the piece, waiting for the whistle of the referee. He is pure chance coated in fakery—a bluff.

He plays against a mastermind, her glasses shinning.

"The best lies always have a grain of truth, right?" she doesn't ask.

"The best lies always have a grain of truth." he doesn't admit.

("Why do you want to be in dangan ronpa?" she asks.

"I want to mean something." he admits.)

  
vi.  
His parents grin down at him, hands that bruise and hurt and kill, wrapping around his neck, hand prints never leaving.

Except, they don't, because he could have sworn he was homeless, could have sworn he was abandoned. He's not sure which reality is worse, but he still feels a vice grip. Lies. Lies. _Lies_. Everything is lies, bitter ash on his tongue.

"Don't you want to go back to your family?" Someone asks, a face blurred out by the haze, and he replies; "I don't have a family."

He wonders if that's the truest thing he's ever said.

vii.  
The death of gonta left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he laughs, and laughs, and _laughs_. His chest hurts.

Nothing about this is funny.

  
viii.  
Sometimes, he dreams of soft lips on his, the haunting of Kaede over, finally, her ghost gone from his eyes. He can almost fool himself it's real, until he remembers;

He's a liar, and he always will be.

ix.  
It's just as planned.

Everyone hates him.

(he hates himself the most.)

x.  
Ouma dies with a smile on his face, except, not really. He dies with a thousand wishes on his breath, his lies still in the air. He dies with unchecked to do lists, and unheard words. He's not sure he cares, though.

Ouma asks to be killed, not only because he wants to win, but he's so, so sick of losing.

The press descends, and the one who dreamed of stars looking at him with an unreadable expression. When he catches him looking, he flashes a cheeky smile, ignoring the tears on his face. He will play his part as surpreme leader until the very end.

There's a snapping of bones, and the splatter of blood, as if, as if—

—as if he was crushed underfoot, a pathetic bug. 

He supposed it fit.

(he wonders if the deseased are watching, wonders if gonta is laughing at the irony, wonders if Kaede is shaking her head, wonders if saihara will ever miss him, ever join him, wonders—nothing, as the press makes contact, mind only screaming in agony.)

(If he could, he would wonder if it's a mercy.)


End file.
